


You Matter To Me

by orphan_account



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Could be seen as platonic but I wrote it with romantic undertones lol, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My attempt at being soft, Nightmares, Stenbrough, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Stan has a nightmare, and goes to the clubhouse for some peace of mind. He manages to find it, but with the help of someone else.





	You Matter To Me

When Stan woke up, all he could see was black. It was obviously very late at night, his bedroom shrouded in shadows. His entire body felt numb. It was like he had been submerged in ice, barely able to feel the torrents of tears that were coming down his face or the trembling of his hands. He was stuck there, paralyzed by the images that had forced their way into his mind and decided that they were going to stay. It was all still there, almost as clearly as if he had still been dreaming.

All of his friends...they were dead, taken. He couldn't do anything to save them, anything to help! Useless, useless, useless....it was chanted to him over and over in his head by a voice that was too familiar. It was like rubbing salt and lemon into an open wound that he desperately wanted to be sewn shut already. Even the scars on his face throbbed with pain that had seemed so ancient yesterday. Stan needed something to bring him back to reality. Just.../something/ to let him know that none of it was real and that he was okay. He couldn’t deal with the incessance of the voice that told him that he would be the reason his friends would get killed. So he managed to pull himself out of bed, frantically throwing a sweater on over his t-shirt and slipping into his shoes as he fled from his house in the dead of night.  
He knew exactly where he was going, so light didn't matter that much. All he needed was the grounding effect that being around their safe place had on him. At least just for a little while. Stan didn't even know how much time had passed until he was at the clubhouse, his chest heaving and tears still running down his cheeks. He stopped next to the hatch in the ground, taking a moment to get some air. Fresh, pure, calming. It definitely helped, but he was still shaking when he opened up the entrance and climbed in. From his lack of a light source aside from the slivers of sparkling moonlight that got in somehow, he stumbled quite a bit. Stan didn’t care, though, eventually settling (collapsing) onto the dusty, wooden floor.

Even the change of scenery could not settle the deeply instilled fright that gripped his heart and head. Stan knew he was a coward. He couldn’t even save the Losers in his dreams, so what chance did he have at saving them when it mattered? That’s right. He would never have a chance. He was just weak, weak, weak-- his thought process halted as the sound of the hatch of the hideout being opened, making him go stiff with another jolt of panic. Maybe something was here to kill him. Maybe he deserved it. But that did not stop him from cowering next to the wooden support beam behind him as a jarringly bright light hits him right in the face.

Stan hissed in pain at the suddenness of it, tearing his gaze away from its’ source almost at once. 

“S...Stan? Wuh..wh..what are you doing here?”, said a soft, pained voice that he could recognize in a heartbeat. It was Bill. He looked back up, distraught, hoping that what he assumed was true. And it was. He stood there, the flashlight held limply in his hand. He was wearing what seemed to be an old t-shirt and shorts, and he looked like...well, about as much of a mess as Stan felt. But he had asked a question, so he had to answer somehow no matter how difficult it was.

“Nightmare.”, was all he could manage to gasp out, his hands clutched tightly by his sides. Almost immediately, Bill had abandoned the light and was by his side. He didn’t seem to mind the dust that accumulated onto his shorts as he put a comforting arm around his shoulder. 

“We...we don’t ha..have to talk about it.”, he assured him. Even his gentle words did not stop the wave of tears that broke free whenever he recounted the events that played out only a few moments ago.

“No, I...everyone was dead, Bill. You were dead. And I...I couldn’t do anything! I couldn’t save any of you, Bill, I just…”, Stan choked, curling himself toward Bills’ side. “I didn’t….” As he spoke, Bill held him closely, resting his own head against his. Stan wondered why he just couldn’t be like him. All of the Losers had their great qualities, but Bill….he was so strong. Fuck, he had lost his brother and he was still going somehow. Who had Stan lost? Nobody, yet. He just wished he had half of the strength that he managed to have. And yes, being so close, he knew that Bill was not everything that he showed on the surface. He was guilty, and lost, and so much more, but he was still so much more than what Stan could ever be.

“It’s okay. It isn’t...r..real.”, he mumbled, “We’re here, okay, Stan? N..not there anymore.” And he wanted to believe it. So badly he wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t take himself out of that place, still mentally stuck in the sewer, or that fucking house--

“But…! I still couldn’t save anyone...I was useless. Just, fucking...useless.”, Stan said weakly, letting his fists go slack. His nails had left indents on his palms, but the pain automatically numbed. Bill looked at him unbelievably, as if he couldn’t possibly understand what he was saying. He turned him gently to look him in the eyes, one hand on his shoulder and one against his cheek. His scars didn’t seem to ache anymore.

“Don’t say that.”, he told him, expression soft yet deadly serious. “Stan, you’re...I don’t th..think you’re useless at all. None of us do. We’re all s..so lucky to have you.” Again, when Bill talked to him in that way, he figured he might just have to take his words as truth. Of course he couldn’t just...make everything better magically, but he was so good at helping. Stan thought that with Bill at his side, he might just be able to pull through. “Yuh..you’re Stan the Man, right? I….We wouldn’t be the same without you.”

He laughed wryly through the remainder of his tears, casting his eyes away from the other. 

“Thank you, Bill...I just wish it was easier to believe that. That you...you and everyone else really want me around. I mean, somewhere, I do know. But sometimes it just gets hard to tell myself that I matter.”, Stan admitted. It didn’t take another moment before both of Bills’ arms were pulling him close, wrapping him up in a gentle yet meaningful hug.

“You do matter, Stan. To everyone, and to me.”, he said quietly, a sure and tender hand resting on his back. At that, he wanted to cry again, but he was too tired to muster the tears. Instead, he hugged back, burying his face into his friends shoulder. He mattered. He wasn’t useless, and he was going to make himself believe it whether that small part of him wanted to or not. If Bill, whose thoughts he valued so much, who was so strong and brave could believe it, then yeah, he could too.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, another fic written at 1 am, heavily based on a roleplay  
It's barely comprehensible to me right now, but I hope you enjoy!  
The title is taken from the song by the same name from the musical, Waitress, which I had on repeat while writing this lmao


End file.
